


Where Man's Glory Most Begins and Ends

by misbegotten



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Don't Examine This Too Closely, First Kiss, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8055484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: Conferences are for administrators, Robbie thinks with some degree of irritation. For those who'd rather be arranging cutout rectangles labeled "Community Engagement" and "Technology Interfaces" than rearranging alibis and crime scene photos.-or- Robbie and James out of their element, in so many ways.





	Where Man's Glory Most Begins and Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dine/gifts).



> For Dine. All errors are, of course, my own.

Conferences are for administrators, Robbie thinks with some degree of irritation. For those who'd rather be arranging cutout rectangles labeled "Community Engagement" and "Technology Interfaces" than rearranging alibis and crime scene photos.

Next to him, he realizes with a start, James is doodling on his notepad rather than actually _taking notes_. Damn, neither of them are going to be able to give a decent showing to Innocent when she asks for a summary of the outcomes of the conference.

Outcomes of the conference, he winces internally. He's thinking in administrator-speak. And why isn't James paying attention, anyway?

He quashes another stab of irritation -- it's not his sergeant's job to make up for Robbie's own lack, though James does tend to fall into that habit with distressing tendency -- and nudges James' foot beneath the conference table.

James blinks, but otherwise betrays no sign of surprise. Except for a brief flicker at Robbie's pad, where he's scrawled in biro a plaintive appeal. _Pint?_

Then James' hand goes to his pocket, pulling out his mobile and glancing at the face with an exaggerated, apologetic sigh. He murmurs, "Escape?" in Robbie's ear and mouths an apology to the current speaker, a wordless and Robbie knows utterly fabricated "case" as explanation. Robbie gathers his things and leads them a path between other coppers nodding absently or, in at least one case, in near slumber.

James lets a smile twitch once they're safely out the door as Robbie clasps him on the shoulder for a second. "Good lad."

"Don’t worry, sir." He pauses for the tiniest moment as Robbie's hand slides away, and then joins Robbie in an unerring line for the pub. "I can brief Innocent on the results of the conference."

"Lack of results, more like," Robbie grumbles, but his step is lightening because the pub is merely two doors down. He jerks his chin towards a table outside and ventures in to acquire a couple of jars, and returns to find James having cleaned off the detritus of the table's previous occupant. "Now there's a result," he says with a great deal of satisfaction, setting down the glasses with a thump. Another small smile from James, and Robbie is feeling much better about the day. "Do you actually absorb all that talk?" he asks, knowing full well that the answer is that his canny lad absorbs everything. The brass has been making noises about moving James into administration, he thinks grimly. Innocent pretends that Robbie doesn't know, and Robbie pretends too.

James shrugs deprecatingly. "It's a more formal approach to policing, I suppose. The institution needs its advocates just as the street needs its investigators."

Robbie shakes his head internally. The brass will grab his sergeant up if Robbie's not careful.

 _His_ sergeant, he chastises himself ruefully. As if James has no say in the matter. _His_ sergeant deserves a promotion. His own bagman. And Robbie should be thinking about his own retirement, not regretting James' future.

"Cheers," he says, clinking glasses and pushing away the thought. "Up for a bite after?"

*

Early evening lingers to late, and Robbie and James are ambling unfamiliar pathways, observing different folk engaging in the same familiar patterns. A domestic in the making there, a happy drunk on the corner, a woman doing her bit for the sexual economy making an abrupt turnabout when she catches a glimpse of them coming down the way.

Robbie has been gnawing at the edge of a question all evening, and to his surprise it finally bubbles past his lips as they pause to listen to a guitar player on the street. James reverently deposits a note into the guitarist's cap on the kerb as Robbie asks, "Why haven't you pushed for promotion?"

James gives him a look. He answers lightly, "Whither goest thou…"

Robbie thinks the guitar player doesn't hold a candle to James' playing, but refrains from saying so and they walk past the shadowed awning of a bookshop. "You should be thinking about your future."

"I think about the future all the time," James replies easily. He's slowing down, looking at a display in the window about travel, and Robbie notes that there's a lovely gilt-edged photo book of Italian churches in the collection. He'll nip back and buy it for James before they leave in the morning. "As for the present, if it were always present and never moved on to become the past, it would not be time, but eternity," he says in his _I'm quoting someone_ tone.

"Augustine?" Robbie ventures wildly.

" _The Confessions_ ," James responds, obviously pleased, and they share a smile. 

But Robbie won't be distracted by shiny things. "I mean it," he pushes on. "You need to consider your options."

The hotel lobby is rather deserted -- even the administrators who convened the conference have winged their way to more interesting things than hanging about with colleagues on a hot summer night -- and they fetch their keys from a bored clerk without having to engage in pleasantries. The lift is occupied by a sunburned couple and their small girl, who is obviously tired, eyes drooping. Robbie tries her with a smile, and she returns it shyly. The family disappears one floor beneath theirs and, as if there has been no pause, James speaks when the doors close upon them.

"I know my options, sir. I'm content with things as they are." He tilts his head, and the pale light of the lift flickers into the semblance of a halo around his blonde hair. "For now."

"Aye," Robbie acquiesces. Arguing with James is as good as arguing with a wall. "Just keep it in mind. For my sake." Their rooms are four doors apart, and he stops with James as James slides his key into the lock and pushes open the door.

James hesitates and looks sideways at Robbie. "Nightcap?"

Robbie thinks of his own cramped room and knows they'll be wanting for space, but he also knows from the previous evening that James has a good bottle of Scotch stowed in his bag. He nods, follows, and lets the door close behind them. James bustles about fetching glasses and the bottle, and Robbie perches on the chair at the edge of the bed. He takes a glass from James gratefully, and James folds himself onto the corner of the mattress, the only other available sitting surface. Their knees are inches apart, and Robbie can smell the whisper of Scotch from James' glass as easily as his own.

James is rolling the glass between his palms thoughtfully. There's something bubbling there too, Robbie can see. It must be the night for airing previously unuttered thoughts. He's patient, though. He can wait for James to bare his soul.

James gives him a look again, as if reading Robbie's mind, and his lips part. "For _your_ sake, sir?"

Not quite what Robbie is expecting. The Scotch goes down easy but with bite, like a rousing conversation. He settles, though, upon a rather trite, "I want what's best for you." Because he does, after all, want what's best for James. Even if it means losing his sergeant. Or shuffling off into retirement to remove a stumbling block from the lad's path, if it comes down to it.

"I doubt any of us know what's truly best for us," James observes doubtfully. He takes a sip, and then slides his glass onto the bedside table. To Robbie's surprise, James reaches out and plucks Robbie's glass away too. 

And then presses his lips to Robbie's.

There's an electric shock. A mix of astonishment and a flicker of something that Robbie is afraid to call desire, because he's not unaware that his body responds. There's the involuntary lick of his lips, chasing James' now absent touch. The quick inhale, the familiar scent of James' aftershave and a day's worth of sweat. The sharp throb of his pulse in his ears.

"It's best that I took the glass," James says quietly. He turns his head, not meeting Robbie's eyes. "Please forgive me, sir. I--" His body shifts, knees turning too.

Robbie puts out a hand. Stops James from withdrawing. "Don’t," he manages. "There's nothing to forgive."

Christ, James is going to be the death of him. This _thing_ is going to be the end of them. And that’s a little death, Robbie realizes. He doesn't want to lose James. In any way whatsoever.

"I've never… you don't," James continues, unaccustomedly stumbling for words. He lapses into silence. Robbie is acutely aware of the shape of James' knee beneath his hand. 

He moves. He acts on instinct. Not, perhaps on his best judgment, which is shouting rather hoarsely that this is not a situation in which he ever expected to find himself. They are an old married couple without the couple. Not this.

What they are, what they were, and what they might be flash through his mind in an instant. He cups a hand at James' neck, pulls James closer, and tilts his head to make their lips fit together.

It's daft. He should feel odd kissing a bloke. Any bloke, but especially James. He should back away before his feeble body gives way any further, listening to his brain which is computing the odds that this won't ruin… _everything_.

And then James' lips part, his tongue touching Robbie's lips experimentally, and Robbie stops thinking. There's that shock again. All instinct, no intellect. Well, James is the philosopher. Not Robbie.

James makes a sound, undeniably a pleased sigh, and Robbie feels something bloom in his stomach. Anticipation. Excitement. Definitely nervousness. Desire again.

"Robbie," James says tentatively. The word is foreign to Robbie coming from that mouth. Which he wants to kiss again. So he does.

"James," he replies eventually. It's a statement. Acceptance, he realises. This thing between them isn't going away. It doesn't feel wrong. The reverse, actually. Definitely the reverse. And damned if a lifetime's worth of assumptions and reservations don't fall away at the same time.

Oh Val, he thinks. Let me do the right thing.

James' breath quickens. He puts his hands across the back of Robbie's neck, mirroring Robbie's own movements, and presses their foreheads together. It gives Robbie a pang. How has he missed _this_? How long has James been playing the part of companion, subordinate, mate, and thinking _this_?

"James," he says again. He can barely register James screwing his eyes shut, as if physically pained by whatever words Robbie is about to utter. Whatever path Robbie is going to take them. "James, I think we should--." He falls silent, moves, tilts James physically again. Kisses him again.

James tastes like Scotch and want. Robbie's stomach has bottomed out, and his groin is stirring uncomfortably against the fabric of his trousers. "You'll be the death of me," he says finally, his words catching up with his thoughts.

"That's the last thing I want," James answers simply. Honestly. He vibrates with need and sincerity. Robbie wants to run his fingers across James' face, down his shoulders. Feel the press of James' hand on his own skin.

He forces himself back. "What's the first thing?"

James looks at him, his eyes a bit glazed. "The first thing?" he echoes.

"Aye," Robbie smiles encouragingly. "What's the first thing you want?"

"Oh," James answers. Hope is blooming in him, his gaze sharpening. "What I've always wanted."

A press of lips again.

"You," James finishes.

There's something absurd in the situation. But then again, Robbie's always found physical relations a bit on the absurd side if he thinks about it too clearly. Expressions, motions, the things people do to one another in the name of. He stutters mentally. In the name of love. Absurd.

Is there anything more absurd than this old man, sitting in a hotel room in a strange city with his sergeant practically in his lap, quaking with need?

"I want you to be happy," he tells James. "Will this make you happy?"

James' breath on his face. His lips turned up in a smile that is endearingly Robbie's to have and own. "Yes," James says firmly.

Somewhere another old man is laughing at him. Morse's Law was simple. There's always time for one more pint. Maybe Robbie's is simple too. There's such a thing as too much thought.

"Right," Robbie says. And succumbs.

Thinking is overrated anyway.


End file.
